


What Light Thru' Yonder Window

by dweadpiwatemeggers



Series: Emerald and Bronze [6]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27516277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dweadpiwatemeggers/pseuds/dweadpiwatemeggers
Summary: A prompt fill: Kissing in a stairwell, giving them an artificial height difference
Relationships: Female Detective/Adam du Mortain
Series: Emerald and Bronze [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948069
Comments: 20
Kudos: 40





	What Light Thru' Yonder Window

**_Wayhaven, Late Evening_ **

It has been quiet in Wayhaven, these past few weeks; there have been no sightings of Trappers, of rogues, no mysteries. It has been a much-needed relief. But they can’t get complacent. Whatever unknown thing coming next will probably be worse.

Which is why Adam is still on patrol.

It is a typical summer night for this part of the country - the air is what the locals consider warm, but it is nowhere near tropical. Even calling it balmy would be generous, depending on one’s place of origin, though he finds it comfortable enough in his t-shirt. There are still traces of light on the horizon in spite of the fact that the sun has finally gone down. He can hear children out playing, regardless of the hour. Well, it's not as though they have school tomorrow. And children should be able to play. He listens to the chorus of voices as he continues down the path. It reminds him a little of… He makes an effort to relax his hands, suddenly balled into fists. It reminds him of a time when people lived by the sun, rather than the clock, that’s all.

The route will take him past Charlotte’s apartment. Adam has no intentions of lingering, no matter how appealing that thought is, no matter the knowledge that she would welcome his company (and he hers, he has no difficulty admitting to that now, at least not to himself). He has not finished his patrol. She will need to be at the station early in the morning. Unlike Unit Bravo, she has been busy - dealing with a rash of petty crimes. She believes that it’s most likely local teenagers cutting loose now that school’s out but she’s still working on acquiring the proof and it’s slow going. 

Adam can hear it long before he can see where it’s coming from - a harmonica, drifting on the breeze. He rounds the corner of the building, and he sees her, Charlotte. She’s sitting on the fire escape, her back against the rails. Her right arm is balanced on her thigh, holding the instrument up to her lips, her eyes closed as she plays. Her face is half-lit by the warm light streaming from her bedroom window, half in shadow.

She’s...stunning.

Angel. That’s what the reporter insists on calling her (she hates it, but she won’t argue about it, he’s not worth the oxygen, she says). But angels, the biblical ones, immortals, wouldn’t understand her music, would never be able to play the way she does - the instrument, the style, so tied to labour, to grief. She is no angel. Just human. Beautifully human, fragile and transient. His heart aches at the sound, at the sight of her, of what he stands to lose, and he has to resist the urge to gather her up to his chest, to carry her away and lock her somewhere safe.

But he can only resist so much, and he’s drawn in against his better judgement. Or maybe he’s drawn in  _ because _ of his better judgement - knowing how much time he’s wasted, aware of how limited their time might be.

Charlotte notices him as he passes under the streetlight, and makes her way down the fire escape. She stops a few rungs from the bottom of the ladder, her arm looped around the rail, harmonica still in hand and greets him with a smile.“I thought you were on patrol.”

“I am.”

“And part of your route includes my apartment parking lot.”

“Yes.” 

“Do you usually stop?”

In truth, yes. Or he usually pauses, at least, to watch for her in the window if her lights are on. But she doesn’t need to know that. He shrugs. “I’m not usually offered a live performance,” he says instead.

She chuckles. “Am I distracting you, then?”

“It does seem to be a particular skill of yours.”

She laughs and reaches out a hand to beckon him closer. He goes willingly, his hands slipping around her waist as he relishes the moment - being the one to make her laugh like that. He acknowledges that there is very little that he would not give to always be able to make her laugh like that. She leans down. Their heights reversed, he has to tip his head up to kiss her. Her lips are soft, and the way her mouth slots against his, soft and warm - it makes him feel alive in ways that he hasn’t in centuries.

He can’t stay. 

He pulls away, just far enough to rest his forehead against hers, whispers, “I have to get back to it.”

She sighs, her fingers brushing gently against the back of his neck. “You’ll come back when you’re done?”

He hesitates. She needs her rest. But… “Don’t wait up for me.”

“Is that an order, Commanding Agent?” She’s teasing, just a little, her brown eyes twinkling and her lips curved in a suppressed smile and he can’t stop himself from leaning in to capture them again, however briefly.

“It’s a request,” he murmurs against her mouth.

“Then I’ll consider it.” She whispers back. She won’t, and they both know it. He’ll open the door, and she’ll be nose-deep in a book, waiting for him.

One last kiss, and he steps away, the sound of a harmonica following him down the street.


End file.
